The following morning finds Delphie enveloped in a heavy shroud of silence, a stark contrast to her usual lively demeanor. Her expressive eyes, once filled with spark and mirth, are now clouded by a brooding storm. Astarion, ever the charismatic jester, tries to pierce through the somber atmosphere with his quips, but all he earns is a faint, forced smile. Delphie's nods of reassurance are mechanical, a feeble attempt to convince her companions that she is okay.
The circus had left an indelible mark on her psyche. The memory of Orin's potential infiltration haunts her, a chilling specter that refuses to fade. Her anger flares anew when she recalls the callous act of the bugbear, his crossbow ruthlessly robbing the Dilophosaurus of its life. Astarion's feeble attempt to rationalize it as just an animal added fuel to the simmering fire within her. Despite the comforting words of her friends, Delphie feels a profound sense of solitude, an isolation remerging from the traumatic events of the circus.
Astarion's restless eyes catch the sight of a commotion on the steps of a nearby temple. An idea sparks in his mind — a chance to offer solace to Delphie. The words spill from his lips, laden with an uncharacteristic sincerity, "What do you say, darling? Want to help some poor souls?" The phrase seems alien, leaving an unpleasant residue in his mouth.
Delphie, meeting his gaze with eyes that hold both sadness and gratitude, understands the gravity of his proposal. Astarion, usually indifferent to the plight of strangers, extends an olive branch of benevolence for her sake. Her genuine smile, the first in what feels like an eternity, lights up her face as she nods in agreement.
As the group approaches the temple, the decision to split up reveals the diverse nature of their party. Gale, Lae'zel, Jaheria, and Karlach set out on a mission to secure food supplies, leaving behind a quartet of mismatched personalities for a rendezvous in the temple.
Upon entering, the air is thick with tension, and they unwittingly walk straight into the center of a brewing storm. A heated exchange unfolds between a halfling named Yannis and a monocle-wearing hollyphant named Valeria. The temple, an unexpected battleground of words, crackles with the energy of unresolved conflict.
Valeria, sporting an air of righteous authority, asserts her belief that a refugee was responsible for the recent murder of the temple's priest. Yannis, on the other hand, vehemently opposes this claim, adamant that someone else was behind the gruesome act. The stage is set, and the room pulses with discord.
As the hollyphant makes her exit, leaving the lingering scent of pipe smoke behind, Yannis can't contain her frustration. "Shitey little elephant," she mutters under her breath, her discontent palpable in the words. Just as she turns around, she finds herself face to face with Wyll, Delphie, Astarion, and Shadowheart. Startled, Yannis quickly recalibrates her tone, realizing the presence of the newcomers.
"Oh, um. I apologize, strangers. Language like that hardly befits a rector of Ilmater," Yannis stammers, trying to salvage the decorum of the sacred space.
"To be fair, she kind of deserved it," Delphie chimes in with a smirk, breaking her day-long silence. Astarion, reveling in the success of his plan to draw her out of her shell, can't help but savor the moment. His eyes gleam with mischief as he glances at the others. "What happened exactly?"
"Two people just died on temple grounds. Our high priest, Father Lorgan, and one of the new refugees, Brilgor. Investigator Valeria thinks it a murder, and is content to blame Brilgor. The politically convenient target," Yannis explains.
"We can look into this for you if you'd like," Delphie replies with a soft smile.
The halfling sighs. "Feel free to look around the temple - but fair warning. The investigator won't change her mind without significant new evidence."
"What should we be looking for?" Wyll chimes in from behind them.
"Valeria never found the murder weapon, so that could be a start. Anything disproving the refugee murder-suicide angle, really."
"We'll try our best. You have my word," Shadowheart says sincerely.
"I really hope you find something. For all our sakes."
With Yannis' words of hope, they begin to search around the temple.
Astarion swings open the creaking wooden door, revealing a chamber adorned with beds, bookcases, and a circular table surrounded by multiple chairs. He beckons for the others to follow, a silent acknowledgment passing between them as they observe the lifeless form of the priest under the watchful gaze of a towering temple devotee. She exudes an aura of uncompromising authority, her demeanor leaving no room for trifles. Delphie tentatively steps forward, breaking the silence with an awkward greeting, "Um, hi there."
"What ails you - marsh fever? Featherlung? Be quick - I've not got all day," the woman retorts, her words sharp and efficient.
"We're investigating Lorgan's death. Could we ask you a few questions?" Delphie inquires with a determined air.
The woman sighs, her gaze unyielding. "What do you want to know?"
"Who do you think killed Father Lorgan?" Wyll interjects impatiently, earning him a stern glare from the rest of the group.
"I reckon Investigator Valeria is right," the woman begins, her stoic face revealing no hint of emotion. "One of the refugees killed him. Cruelly, too - they cut off his hand, sawed right through the bone. I found a paralytic poison on one of his wounds. Lorgan was alive while they took the hand; he just couldn't scream. It's sick."
The wood elf momentarily drifts into her thoughts, a contemplative silence hanging in the air. "Wait a minute," she interjects, her voice breaking the quietude. "You said they took his hand?"
"Do you know something, darling?" Astarion inquires, his gaze piercing into her eyes with an intensity that seeks answers.
"I remember my mother mentioning something to one of the Bhaalists years ago. About needing to cut off the hand of someone they murdered as proof of their faith in Bhaal or something like that," she explains, shutting her eyes tightly, as if the act might coax more details from her memories.
"Is that all you remember?" Shadowheart probes with a measured tone.
Delphie releases a sigh and nods, her eyes opening to meet the collective gaze of the group. "If this is related to the Cult of Bhaal..."
"It's urgent we find out what they're up to. Especially if it has anything to do with harming you," Wyll interjects, almost as if he can preempt Astarion's concerns. The vampire spawn sends a warning glare in his direction.
"Thanks, Wyll, but I don't think it has anything to do with me. If anything, it's about proving one's loyalty to Bhaal," Delphie concludes with a calm assurance that belies the unsettling nature of their discoveries.
"Let me try something," the half-elf announces, gracefully advancing toward the lifeless body with an outstretched hand. Her now platinum-blonde hair is illuminated by a pulsating blue energy emanating from her hand and eyes at the words of an incantation. Lorgan's corpse responds, ascending from the bed, bathed in a similar ethereal radiance. "We can only ask him five questions."
Delphie steps closer to the levitating figure. "Who killed you?"
"Dwarf...dressed in red..." Lorgan utters in a monotone voice, the words hanging in the air like an eerie refrain.
"It-it wasn't Brilgor," the woman's voice trembles from behind them.
"Why didn't you use this spell before?" Wyll questions, prompting Shadowheart to deliver a swift, exasperated smack to his head. Unbeknownst to the warlock, the priest continues to respond to his inquiries. "Excuse me, what was that for?"
"Oh, gods. For someone who deals with magic, you certainly don't know how this spell works," Astarion remarks, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Go stand over there. Don't say a word until we're done." He points with a mischievous grin to a corner at the far end of the room, watching until he's out of sight.
"We have two questions left, thanks to Wyll," Shadowheart mutters, her annoyance barely concealed.
"It's fine," Delphie reassures, her mind already formulating more inquiries. "Why did he kill you?"
"I...do not...know," the corpse intones, a haunting uncertainty in its voice.
"Where did you die?" The last question hangs hopefully in the air as it leaves the wood elf's lips.
"Tunnels from the cellar...refuge..." With that, Shadowheart's spell concludes, and the ethereal form of the priest gently descends back onto the bed.
"You can come out now, Blade of Frontiers," Astarion calls out, his voice taking on a singsongy cadence, breaking the tension with a touch of amusement.
They descend into the cellar, unearthing a concealed passageway that leads to the mysterious tunnels mentioned by the priest. As they navigate the subterranean passages, distant voices echo through the stone corridors. The quartet adopts a stealthy posture, crouching low as they approach the source of the sounds. The reverberation leads them to the unexpected discovery of another group of adventurers.
The ambiance thickens with tension, and Delphie, once more absorbed in contemplation, attempts to recall the details her mother shared about Bhaalist rituals years ago. Lost in thought, she unconsciously leans forward, her footing faltering on the uneven stones. Swiftly, Astarion's reflexes kick in, preventing a potential misstep. However, their presence doesn't go unnoticed by the trio below, and the atmosphere shifts from an eerie quiet to a sudden confrontation.
The trio, alerted to the interlopers, abandons any pretense of camaraderie and swiftly transitions into an aggressive stance. The air crackles with anticipation as the two groups become entangled in the confined space of the tunnels.
They dispatch the trio of adventurers effortlessly, only to discover a macabre revelation – the fallen foes morph into tall, pale, goblinoid-looking figures. "Is this related to the circus incident?" Shadowheart inquires, her tone laced with a palpable concern that echoes through the dimly lit tunnels.
Astarion, ever vigilant, sifts through the dopplegangers' bodies and unearths a note. With a flicker of curiosity, he unfolds it and peruses its contents. "This seems to be some sort of field report."
Delphie, eager for information, cranes her neck to peer over his shoulder. "What does it say?" Astarion hands it to her, and her eyes scan the written words. "Guys," she announces, capturing the attention of Shadowheart and Wyll. "I think we have a name. Dolor." The note details a man utilizing a paralytic poison and a distinctive dagger. "It sounds like his dagger is hidden somewhere around-"
Before she can complete her sentence, Astarion follows a trail of blood to a concealed hole in the ground. With a swift motion, he brushes away the dirt, revealing a green, ragged dagger adorned with a skull emblem near the hilt. "Here's the murder weapon, darling," he remarks with a smirk.
The wood elf hurries over to him, scrutinizing the weapon. "The blade matches the wounds on Father Lorgan's body."
"And I found this," Wyll chimes in, holding up a maroon key adorned with a flower motif. Astarion plucks it from his hand. "You could've asked, spawn."
"Hmm," the pale elf dismisses the comment as he examines the key. "This looks vaguely familiar."
Despite Delphie's unequivocal declaration of her affection for Astarion, the presence of Wyll persistently looms over him like a looming threat. A subtle undercurrent of rivalry pervades their interactions, leaving Astarion with the nagging suspicion that Wyll harbors a constant desire to outshine him, to assert dominance in the realm of Delphie's affections. In Astarion's mind, there's an unspoken competition, a silent struggle for the coveted position as Delphie's favored companion.
A subtle insecurity creeps into Astarion's thoughts, whispering that perhaps Wyll possesses the ability to provide Delphie with things that he, himself, cannot. A pang of inadequacy flits across his consciousness, suggesting that Wyll might be more capable of meeting her needs, fulfilling desires that Astarion fears he may fall short of satisfying. Astarion grapples with the unsettling notion that, in the grand tapestry of Delphie's heart, Wyll might be a more fitting piece.
Yet, intertwined with these unsettling thoughts, there's a more selfish and potent realization. Astarion recognizes, perhaps unwillingly, that he craves Delphie's presence more than Wyll ever could. In the complexity of his emotions, he acknowledges that she is not just a preference but a necessity—a singular force that completes a void within him.
"Well, we've gathered a few pieces of evidence. Perhaps we should return to camp before the others grow concerned," Shadowheart suggests, breaking him from his thoughts. Everyone nods in agreement and packs up the evidence. The tunnels, now tinged with an ominous aura, fade into the background as the group decides to regroup and share their discoveries with their fellow adventurers.
Later that night, Delphie lies entwined with Astarion, their bodies accustomed to the familiar contours of each other. However, the tranquility that typically envelops her in his arms remains elusive tonight, disrupted by the haunting echoes of recent events. Her mother, Orin, and the rest of the Bhaalists are working with the Absolute. A gnawing unease settles in her chest as she contemplates the newfound knowledge Orin possesses, wielding it as a potential weapon against both her and Astarion. The realization that the shapechanger could exploit this leverage, causing harm to him to manipulate her, lingers like a foreboding storm on the horizon.
Yet, another insidious thought weaves through her troubled mind—the revelation of her lineage as the offspring of Bhaal, the malevolent deity. Doubt creeps in, whispering tales of her inherent darkness, of the curse that seems to shadow those she cares for. Silent questions hang in the air: Was Astarion in more danger around her? Were they all in more danger around her?
With a heavy sigh, Delphie gently disentangles herself from Astarion's embrace, mindful not to disturb his peaceful slumber. He stirs slightly as she moves, an almost imperceptible shift in response to the subtle disturbance.
"I'll be right back, dretri," she whispers, her fingers lingering on his cheek in a tender caress. "Go back to sleep."
"Don't go far, darling," he murmurs into his pillow, a subtle protest accompanying his drowsy words. A small whine escapes him as Delphie withdraws her hand. With a silent promise in her eyes, she rises, slipping out of their shared tent and into the night, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and an atmosphere heavy with uncertainty.
She strides for several miles, retracing her steps to the ancient tree where she and Astarion slept their first night in Rivington. As her fingers trace the carvings etched into the bark during her childhood, a foreboding darkness encircles her. In the moonlit silence, she feels the ominous presence before her eyes lock onto two shadowy figures, their crimson eyes glowing in the obscurity. "I know you're there!" she declares, her grip tightening on her bow. "You might as well come out!"
With her words, the figures emerge into the soft moonlight filtering through the forest canopy. A young tiefling woman, her red skin juxtaposed against her black horns, stands beside a man slightly older, his long black hair cascading around him. The vivid glow of their red eyes pierces through the dimly illuminated surroundings. The realization strikes her like a bolt of lightning—these are vampire spawn, likely Astarion's siblings.
"What do you want from me?" The wood elf seethes, her words slicing through clenched teeth.
"Where's Astarion?" the man demands.
Delphie hopes that her escalating heartbeat isn't as audible as it seems to her. She maintains her stoic facade. "I don't know who that is."
"Please, just tell us," the tiefling implores with more patience. "We need him to come back home."
"I told you. I don't know who that is."
The man takes a step closer, and she swiftly withdraws an arrow from her quiver, aiming it at his face. "No need for that," he says, glancing at the tiefling, who shakes her head. "Look, we just want to talk. We saw you walking around with him earlier."
A conflict rages within the wood elf. A primal instinct urges her to release the arrow, to eliminate these vampire spawn and protect Astarion. Yet, another part of her hesitates. Despite Astarion's disdainful portrayal of them, they are still his only semblance of 'family.' She finds herself torn, caught between the desire to protect him and the uncertainty of how he would perceive such an act.
"Now, where is he?" The man demands again, his patience unraveling like a tightly wound thread.
In a fleeting moment, a familiar energy tingles in the air, a surge of hope rippling through the wood elf. Could it be? With a defiant glare, she releases the arrow, a swift motion that splits the side of the spawn's ear open. "Like I'd tell you anything," she retorts with venom, her words laced with disdain. Before the vampire spawn can react, she bolts off the cliff, a calculated move that momentarily tricks them into believing she sacrificed herself to shield Astarion.
Their assumptions swiftly crumble as a colossal shadow emerges from the depths below the cliff. The spawn, now realizing they underestimated their prey, transform into a swirling mist as a dragon rises to meet them. The majestic creature, with scales glinting in the moonlight, propels itself toward the sky, powerful wings beating against the night.
"Echo! That was perfect timing!" Delphie giggles, perched on the back of the golden dragon.
"Where is your scale, my friend?" Echo inquires, her voice resonating with a regal tone.
"Um... I gave it to this tiefling girl who is in a lot more danger than I am. I told her to use it to summon you if she was ever in danger."
The dragon contemplates this information before posing another question. "Where are your other companions? Especially that Bloodsucker? Has he hurt you?" Echo cranes her neck back toward Delphie, a keen gaze assessing her well-being.
Alarmed, the wood elf responds, "No, but Echo, we need to get back to camp. He's in danger."
"I do not like him, but I respect that you do. I will do this for you." With a graceful flip, Echo adjusts course, following Delphie's directions as they embark on a journey back to the camp, shadows of danger lingering in the night air.
Echo descends to the ground with a resonant thump, a sound so pronounced it rouses the entire camp from their slumber. The canvas flaps of the tents rustle open, and a sea of concerned faces emerges, eyes wide with anxiety as they seek the source of the unexpected disturbance.
"Gods, Delphnye! You scared us half to death!" Shadowheart exclaims, responding with a mixture of relief and reproach, her mace tossed aside as she rushes forward to envelop Delphie in a tight and protective embrace.
"Correction—" Astarion begins, his demeanor laced with a sardonic smirk.
"Yes, Astarion. I know you're already dead."
"What's the lizard doing here?" Astarion grumbles, casting a resentful glare toward the dragon.
"Protecting you, Bloodsucker," Echo asserts, her regal demeanor undeterred as she meets Astarion's gaze with an unwavering intensity that borders on defiance.
The camp, now fully awakened, buzzes with whispers and exchanged glances, caught in the spectacle of the unexpected visitor. Echo stands tall and majestic, her golden scales gleaming in the ambient light, a formidable guardian that has disrupted the tranquility of their makeshift haven.
"I'll explain on the way, but we have to leave now," Delphie urges, a sense of urgency propelling her back toward Echo with determined strides.
The golden dragon glances around, her discerning eyes sizing up the assembled group. "I do not think they will all fit."
"I do not need a ride," Jaheira declares, her humanoid form seamlessly shifting into that of a majestic giant eagle. In her talons, she scoops up Lae'zel, who bears a feline resemblance being lifted by the tuft of her fur. Lae'zel, with arms crossed defiantly, shoots a piercing glare as Jaheira raises her off the ground. The owlbear follows them, much to Lae'zel's chagrin.
"Let us leave," the gith commands, the unwavering intensity in her gaze revealing her discontent.
Isobel and Aylin decided to meet up with them in Baldur's Gate at the Elfsong Tavern, so it's currently just the ten of them. The wood elf pulls out a scroll and casts the spell to transform Scratch into a mouse, placing him in her backpack. Delphie, Shadowheart, Wyll, and Karlach, united in their determination, ascend and mount the gold dragon's back with practiced ease.
"Yeah, we're not doing this, darling," Astarion protests, arms crossed over his chest, his reluctance evident in the furrowed lines of his brow.
"I will be the one to say, I don't necessarily enjoy heights," Gale confesses, his scholarly composure betraying a hint of anxiety.
Before any further objections can be voiced, Echo gracefully swings back down, her massive claws securing Astarion between her front ones and Gale between her back ones. Both men, suspended in the air, wear expressions of sheer terror as they are hoisted into the night sky. With a powerful beat of her wings, the dragon takes to the skies, the group in tow, leaving the camp below bathed in the hushed stillness of the night, a silhouette against the vast expanse of darkness.
A mixture of terrified screams and excited laughter resonates from the dragon's back as she propels herself toward Wrym's Crossing with Jaheira and the owlbear in tow. The onlookers, both below and on the dragon's back, share a collective gasp as Echo leads the charge, hurtling towards the bridge with a speed that oscillates between exhilarating and terrifying.
"Del, your dragon friend is fucking crazy!" Karlach's scream cuts through the air. Each member of the party fearfully braces themselves for the imminent impact. Behind them, Jaheira squawks in her eagle form, and the owlbear screeches, adding to the symphony of chaotic sounds.
As they hurtle toward the bridge, the wind whipping past them, the looming structure of Wrym's Crossing grows closer, and concern etches itself onto every face.
By the time they reach the walls of the bridge, a magical veil envelops them, seamlessly transporting them from the airborne chaos to solid ground on a rocky cliff. Echo, with practiced ease, sets Astarion down with a less-than-graceful thud while ensuring Gale alights more gracefully.
"I think I might be sick," the wizard confesses, clutching his stomach, a touch of green coloring his normally pale face.
Astarion groans, glaring up at the dragon, who smirks back, a silent exchange of banter passing between them as the rest of their companions find their footing on the solid ground. "You're a dead lizard," Astarion stage-whispers to Echo, taking advantage of Delphie's momentary distraction.
"Apologies, my friends. I should have warned you about that entrance," the gold dragon says with a mischievous smile, her eyes glinting with a knowing twinkle. The party, now situated on the solid ground, exchanges bewildered looks, a mixture of awe and exasperation etched on their faces as they contemplate the daring escapade orchestrated by their unorthodox mode of transportation.
The party takes in their surroundings, finding themselves in the heart of an otherworldly paradise nestled within a magnificent canyon. A breathtaking waterfall steals the spotlight, descending gracefully from a towering cliff into a serene body of water. The cascade is framed by lush greenery, with trees and sandy shores embracing the crystalline pool below. The canyon walls boast large rocky platforms, each one adorned with heaps of gleaming gold and treasures, a spectacle that dazzles the eyes.
However, the true marvel lies in the presence of their unexpected hosts—a congregation of metallic dragons. The air is alive with the energy of wyrmlings and young dragons, their vibrant scales shimmering in the moonlight. Amidst the youthful exuberance, a few adult dragons command attention, their majestic forms casting an imposing yet awe-inspiring presence.
"Echo, where did you take us?" Delphie inquires, her eyes absorbing the scene with a profound sense of wonder, as if she has stumbled upon the very place her soul yearned to discover.
Astarion watches her, a large smile playing on his face. The transformation in Delphie's demeanor is striking; from a state of emotional turmoil earlier, she has now found a sense of inner peace amid the enchanting spectacle of metallic dragons and the paradisiacal surroundings. The juxtaposition of her earlier distress and current tranquility is not lost on Astarion, and he revels in the sight of her rediscovered serenity.
His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by the resonant beating of wings, signaling the arrival of a gold dragon that dwarfs Echo in size. The group of misfits instinctively moves aside, creating a respectful path for the majestic creature. Before the dragon descends, a mesmerizing transformation takes place, and the massive form shifts into that of a middle-aged elven man. His long, grey hair cascades gracefully, and his dazzling golden eyes hold both kindness and an ageless wisdom that spills forth from the crinkles around them. As the dragon takes on the guise of the elven figure, Echo bows her head in deference.
"Welcome home, Delphnye," the man utters in a voice that resonates with soothing calmness, a reflection of the profound wisdom he undoubtedly possesses. Delphie, in response, approaches him with a sense of innate familiarity, as if an unspoken bond connects them. The air carries a tension of anticipation as he poses a question to her.
"Do you know who I am?" The wood elf's lip quivers with a mix of emotions. Though he doesn't explicitly state it, the answer rests within her, a revelation that Delphie can feel deep within her core. This is the dragon from whom her sorcery emanates, a connection that transcends the boundaries of mere ancestry.
"You're my ancestor, aren't you?" she utters, her voice choking back a sob as she continues to approach him. "You're why my magic's so strong?"
The elven man gently takes hold of her arms, a gesture both comforting and grounding. "I'm more than that. You've been told all of your life that Bhaal is your father. He's not." The weight of revelation hangs in the air, the truth unfolding with a gravity that has the power to reshape Delphie's understanding of her own existence.